


A Whiter Shade of Noise

by rosa_himmelblau



Category: House M.D., Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 16:52:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19360903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: A clerical error lands House on the psych ward.





	A Whiter Shade of Noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michelle Christian (movies_michelle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/movies_michelle/gifts).



"You don't understand," House said as clearly as he could. It wasn't that easy; he'd taken one too many Vicodan, and things were a little fuzzy. "I don't belong here."

"Of course you don't, Mr. House," the orderly said, pushing him rather too firmly into a wheelchair. "Just sit back and enjoy the ride."

"Where are you taking me? Is this Wilson's idea of a joke?" Even through the drug haze, he could see the look the orderly exchanged with the receptionist. "Wilson. Doctor James Wilson. And I'm Doctor Gregory House—"

"He's a doctor," the orderly said, in much the same way he might say it if a three-year-old had made the same assertion.

"I **am** a doctor," House said, trying to stand up, but the drugs and the orderly were working against him, and his leg, while not actively opposing him, was apparently pretending to be Swiss. And in a few moments he was wheeled away, to what he realized was the locked ward of the hospital.

"I was here to have my leg looked at—talk to the doctor!"

"I thought **you** were the doctor," the orderly said, and House really hated the way he said it. If he'd had his cane—where was his cane? If he'd had his cane, he'd use it to explain why you shouldn't talk to cripples like that.

"Where's my cane?"

"That's all right, doc, you won't be needing a cane. You'll be riding for a while."

House tried to stand up, and the next thing he knew, he couldn't—not because of his lack of cane, or his leg, or the drugs, but because of the soft restraints that were restraining him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You're here for a seventy-two hour watch," a nurse said, and where had she come from? Was this Wilson's sneaky way of getting him to detox? He wouldn't put it past him.

"Watch? Who's watching me and why? I came in here because of my leg!"

The nurse was looking at the chart. "It doesn't look as though there's anything anyone can do for your leg. Now why don't you just relax? It'll be time for supper soon, and if you behave yourself, you can have it sitting upright instead of lying in bed."

"What is the matter with you people? Why am I here? Where's Wilson? Call Cuddy—you must know her! Tell her to get me out of here!" For some reason, tipping over his wheelchair seemed like a good idea, but they caught on faster than he could tip, and in a minute they were sticking him with a needle. "What are you giving me?"

It sounded like the nurse said "electric dreams," but that couldn't have been right.

**

When he woke up it was dark, and House was in a hospital bed, but he wasn't restrained any more. And his leg didn't hurt, which made him wonder what kind of drug "electric dreams" was, and where he could get some more of it. He looked around the dark room, which seemed strangely . . . foggy. "What, are they fumigating this wing? Probably figure a little DDT couldn't hurt the crazies any. Who knows, maybe they'll stumble onto a new breakthrough. DDT kills common garden pest, and it'll clear up crazy old Uncle Henry's schizophrenia, too! **That'll** make the FDA rethink its position."

Seventy-two hours in the mental ward. Admittedly, he'd had worse weekends. Maybe tomorrow he'd get to spend some time talking to the nut bars, and annoy the staff by proving some of them weren't even crazy. That was, assuming he could prove that he wasn't crazy himself. The little voice he kept hearing wouldn't help him do that, he was sure. Someone sing-songing a name—and it wasn't even his name. If he was hearing voices, they should be talking to **him,** shouldn't they? Maybe he was having someone else's schizophrenic delusions. House didn't know whether to be amused or insulted.

The voice was coming from under the bed. House leaned over, into the vapors. "I think you're in the wrong hallucination. Try the guy down the hall, he looked a little lonely."

The voice under the bed stopped. House lay back down, and took a tentative deep breath. His leg didn't hurt. He took another one, and another. His leg didn't hurt. He went back to sleep.

**

Wilson stood at the reception desk, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. "I know. Believe me, I know. But he isn't—" He was going to say _he isn't crazy,_ but that wasn't quite accurate. "He doesn't have a diagnosed mental illness, he's just hard to get along with. And his chart got mixed up with someone else's. So you can see, he isn't supposed to be here."

"He **bit** an orderly," the psychiatrist said. He was standing behind the receptionist, his arms folded.

Wilson thought about it. They'd somehow managed to mislay his cane, so he couldn't say he was really surprised that House had taken to biting. "I'll talk to him," was what he said, the way he always said it when someone came to him with a complaint about House. The frightening thing was, it nearly always worked. People had forgiven House far more than a bite just because Wilson had assured them he'd talk to him about it. Occasionally Wilson thought about saying, _"His mother and I will talk to him,"_ or, _"He'll be grounded for the next month,"_ just to see what would happen. Today he thought about adding that House had had all his shots, but of course that wasn't even true. "Do you really **want** to keep him?"

That seemed to make up their minds. In a matter of minutes Wilson was behind House's wheelchair, removing him from the hospital.

"You took your own sweet time getting here," was the first thing House said.

"Yes, I was on one of those Carnival cruises, and I didn't want to miss the shuffleboard playoffs," he said, because what could you say?

"They lost my cane," House accused.

"It was down in Lost & Found. It's in my car."

"There was a man under my bed the first night. He was from someone else's hallucination."

That literally made Wilson stop. "What?"

"He was calling somebody's name, but it wasn't mine."

"You were having someone else's hallucination?"

"It was the drugs."

"Were they your drugs, or his drugs?"

"I don't know. They gave me something they kept calling 'electric dreams.'"

"As in, do androids dream of electric sheep?"

"I thought it made my leg stop hurting, but I was really just asleep."

Wilson sighed. _I'm sorry to hear that._

**Author's Note:**

> Blame movies_michelle because she compared kicked-out-of-his-home Wilson with kicked-out-of-his-home Frank.


End file.
